


don't you know that the kids aren't alright?

by kibbledor



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, Gen, I mean., head girl finds a head and insanity ensues, side Waverly/Perry, with a side of soft witches in very gay love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-23 06:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12500648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibbledor/pseuds/kibbledor
Summary: For a while, it’s prefectorial. It’s calm, and distracted from the giant white elephant in a very small train car. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Samantha ‘Perky-Tits’ Baker looks up from the Slytherin huddle and sticks her hand in the air.‘Sorry,’ she says slowly. ‘We’re all still trying to wrap our heads around why anyone would make Wynonna Earp a Head Girl.'(Or, the Hogwarts AU. Initially based around a Wayhaught prompt that has since expanded into a monster. Send help.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Potterology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potterology/gifts).



> After months of roleplay, here is the dream: Wynonna Earp in the wizarding world, throwing spells and taking names, sprinkled with little high school romance, crime, and mystery. Everyone's favourite Canadians, crammed into the walls of Hogwarts for a sweet, long year.
> 
> Everything is set after the Second Wizarding War, and will contain references to elements of the original books.

‘You girls better _behave,_ out there–’ Gus is saying, over the bustle of the platform. Over the grinding of wheels and the bumping of trunks; the soft pulse of a steam engine, pumping on their train; the little hoots of owls mixed in with the sound of magical children, seeing their siblings off. Over the distant sound of a family saying their goodbyes; over reunions of friends. Gus definitely talks over the magic of September first, distracting both girls from getting settled. But Waverly Earp’s not about to bite the hand that feeds her.

(That’s a muggle phrase she picked up, in a library book. How cool is that?)

‘–and that means _you_ , Wynonna.’ Gus smacks her sister’s arm, and wags the warning finger. Threatening, for the seventh time; for the last time. Y’know, before Wynonna’s done with England, and rolling on home. ‘Don’t wanna be sendin’ Curtis through the paintin’s to check on you again.’

‘Hey! Those exploding sweets were _one time_.’ Wynonna’s cocked a brow, indignant. ‘ _Besides_. He spends all his time with baby Earp: telling her all about the bar, and the pretty _piano_.’ 

Waverly hums in accord, for what it’s worth. ‘‘Course, I haven’t told him his piano’s been broken since he _died_ –’

‘–Since someone won’t fix it,’ Wynonna finishes, wearing her wild, blue gaze with a knowing smile. ‘One mending charm away, Gus.’

Gus snorts, clapping a hand over the handle of their trolley, and some poor kid jumps in shock. ‘I’ll be damned if you touch my no–maj piano and my no–maj bar with the tip of your wand, Wynonna. And–’ she turns to Waverly, jabbing her a finger. ‘Damned if _you_ come back to Purgatory, after all this. Bein’ a barmaid over a witch? Are you crazy?’

‘No place like home.’ Waverly smiles, fond. ‘And at Hogwarts is a _breeze_. Most of these guys haven’t _seen_ a storm like Purgatory’s.’ 

‘Must be why Waverly lets Loverboy take all her ugly sweaters. And her bras–’

Waverly shoves her hands over Wynonna’s big, satisfied grin while she’s left to turn some awful shade of red. So much for the big sisters out there to watch your back and keep your secrets, _especially_ from Aunt Gus. Sweet, protective, no–boy’s–good–enough–for–you Gus, who’d threatened to hex a kid to Boston if he didn’t sit right on his bike and keep his eyes off Wynonna–

Thankfully, the whistle blows, bright, and booming. It slices through the dimming noise of a busy platform. Stops the children running; stops the old friends chatting over the heads of their new broods. Really gets everyone’s attention, to send the first warning: get the hell on board, or walk yourself north. 

Time to hook your hands into the handles of your trunks, adjust the lining of your hoods, and say your last goodbyes. Better hope you’ve remembered to buy everything off the long street of Diagon Alley, or you’re screwed by now!

Gus grabs them both in that tight, sweet embrace. ‘Don’t you forget t’ feed that damn owl of yours,’ she says, crushing their shoulders, and pressing a kiss to both their cheeks. ‘Girlie’s always starvin’ when she flies by.’

‘Well, you gotta send me that catalogue,’ Waverly says. ‘No guide, no mice; no mice, no feeding. Wynonna’s not about to do the legwork–’ 

‘Whoa, _whoa_. I’ll _feed_ her, okay? I’ll even clean the damn cage. I’m just…’ She shivers. ‘ _Not_ putting mice in my trunk.’ 

‘You’ve got mice for _potions_ –’

‘Seeya at Christmas, Gus!’ 

And that’s Wynonna peeling out, with her trunk and cage in tow. It’d be a vision, with the light on that London leather jacket, and the cowgirl boots, tucked in a strut like that. Maybe if her trunk doesn’t veer right off course, and tip right over. If it wasn’t loud, and rickety, with that broken left wheel. If she didn’t break that left wheel on a flight of stairs she tried to _jump_. It’d be a picture-perfect scene of cool, as she leaves her family, pretending she doesn’t care. 

Waverly ignores her wreck of a sister, and turns to hug her aunt goodbye. Her chin tucks into Gus’s warm shoulder; she smiles into her scarf, and breathes the scent of home. ‘Write me loads, okay?’

‘You count on that, baby girl.’ Gus steps back, fond, and squeezes her. Looks like she’s taking a good look at her little girl, growing right up before her eyes. _Right_ before she’s twisting her round by the shoulders, and slapping her ass like a stubborn pony. ‘Now get a goddamn move on, before you’re stuck with me.’ 

Waverly’s giggle is lost in the bright whistle of the Hogwarts Express, as she packs herself aboard.

* * *

They’re well into the English countryside when Wynonna throws her weight into the corner of the now-empty compartment. She’s just about as unceremonious as ever: propping her boots against the windowsill, and dropping the crumbs of a pumpkin pasty into her waiting lap. Doesn’t even wait for Pete York to clear the sliding doors as he leaves, though Waverly stands to watch him go. Wynonna Earp. Rude, with hair like a mare with a Hollywood stylist.

The muggle-borns tell her they’re the best kind there is.

‘You gonna make me leave too?’ She chides, reclined against the door of the compartment. 

Wynonna rolls her eyes. ‘Like I wanna see _Beady Pete_ hittin’ on my baby sister.’

‘Better him than his _brother_ ,’ Waverly says, in turn. Credit where credit’s due, Wynonna: even if she’s got better taste with both eyes blind, and her hands behind her back. Even if she’d rather join a muggle nunnery, than sign herself up for a wedding to a _York_.

She watches Pete duck into a compartment with his brother and his friends. ‘Least he didn’t try to steal his brother’s girlfriend, on his birthday–’

‘Yeah, okay. Enough with the throwback, _Witch Weekly_.’ Wynonna makes a face. _Not_ the image she’d wanted in mind, when she’d chased him out. ‘Least I haven’t got a pet project to find Crofte an _actual_ personality.’

‘– _Hey_.’ 

Wynonna cracks a triumphant smile. ‘I mean, what is that _like_?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Making out with your homework?’

‘He’s _nice_.’ Enter the thought of good old Perry Crofte. Seventh year Ravenclaw, team seeker, Head Boy. Guy with … a _little_ Felix Felicis in his juice, from time to time. And maybe he’s not the pro player they’d both hoped he’d be, after the summer, but–what’s a witch to say? He’s serious, he’s kind, and they’re _happy_. That’s a perfect kind of _fine_. ‘Keeps his word, likes History– _actually_ came to take me out, this summer? Quidditch date.’

‘Let me guess. _You_ watched him fly. For hours.’ 

‘…He brought a new snitch,’ Waverly says, affronted. ‘And he had a picnic, okay? With all the pastries. And the sweets. He even got me those muggle doughnuts from that bakery in Purgatory–whole box of sugar-glazed.’

‘No vanilla dip? _Ouch_ ,’ Wynonna says, quirking a brow, and Waverly falls silent. She doesn’t try to admit that the thought’d crossed her mind, while she’d sat in the grass (he’d forgotten to take a blanket) and watched him zoom around the field. She doesn’t think about the fact that she’s loved nothing but those doughnuts since she was six years old. Wynonna doesn’t need another victory under her belt.

Instead, she’s bitter, looking out the window. ‘When you stop dating _professors_ , then you can give me relationship advice.’ 

‘Hey. Watch it.’ Wynonna’s shoulders tense, in warning; a change of heart with a snap of her fingers. Like she’s got a coil to spring in her belly, and a secret to keep. Like she’s got to make all those weird, long nights disappear under the radar, so the whole _house_ doesn’t flap their gums. ‘He’s _helping_ me with my _Defence_ homework. Nothing else is going on unless I _say_ it is.’

Thankfully, Waverly doesn’t scare easy, and she doesn’t back down. ‘Sure. Let me know when you master those _non-verbal spells_ –’ 

‘Earp?’ The door bangs open, and they freeze.

For a moment, Waverly thinks there’s something poetic about an intruder with red hair, in her red-lined robes, and jeans tucked into muggle boots. One never quite expects her to _not_ be a Weasley, with the hair. One never thinks ‘intruder’ to be tall, or pretty. One _definitely_ doesn’t think it’s gonna be Nicole Haught, looking for her _sister_.

‘–Didn’t do it,’ Wynonna says, and it’s ruined. Waverly smacks her face.

Nicole sits down across her, finding an easy laugh.

Waverly knows Nicole; they’re in duelling club together, though they’ve never crossed wands. She’s seen her save most of those Ravenclaw tries, in the Gryffindor matches; she’s even seen her telling off some fourth-years for extendable ears, found in third-year bedrooms. Mostly, she’s seen Nicole with Wynonna. Ever since that pancake debacle, two years ago, the two are easy friends. 

When _she’d_ first met her? She’d been sopping wet from a tryout for the Ravenclaw quidditch team, and Nicole had charmed her dry. Nicole’d said something about a wet t-shirt competition, from the muggle world; she’d said something she doesn’t remember. Ostensibly, _not_ the best of first impressions.

Wynonna kicks the window, by accident, and Waverly startles.

‘Sorry,’ Nicole is saying, peeling a chocolate frog. ‘Didn’t mean to–interrupt, whatever…it was.’

There’s her chance. Waverly pipes up. ‘ _We’ve_ got a case on trial. Wynonna and John Henry. You’re the first witness.’

Wynonna takes a hard swipe at Waverly’s head, and threatens to turn her hair a vomit shade of green. The pasty’s upset, somewhere in the fight: it hits the ground near Nicole’s shoes, wasted, but Wynonna holds on tight. Still, somewhere between calling her a _narc_ and a _little shit_ , there’s a quick snort of laughter.

‘That’s still _news_?’ Nicole is asking, when both heads whip around. 

When they stare at her like she’s grown an extra head, her confidence takes a trip down the sink. 

‘…To you,’ she realises, pointing at Waverly, then back at Wynonna’s _fuming_ face. ‘Oh.’ Wrong step, way too far to the left. ‘Okay.’

‘It’s nothing you wouldn’t do,’ Wynonna says, flat and warning.

Nicole sputters through her bite of chocolate. ‘ _Whoa_. Okay. I don’t care what _choose_ to do, Wynonna,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to _lie_ to me. It’s just––’

She jabs a finger down the hall; the open compartments she’d passed, on the way up here. A little group of first-years, with their older siblings; a pocket of Slytherins; her Gryffindor team. All at equal fault for things she wishes she hadn’t heard.

‘People all over this train are talking about you being Head Girl. Rumours about…professors, and sister, and _pastimes_ included.’

Waverly bites her lip, quiet. Her gaze falls to her lap.

She remembers the day of the letters; two owls, one tawny and one snow, swooping through the window with the lists for school. Both had demanded to be fed, before they’d let her get her letter. Both had pecked her raw for trying to untie those envelopes, before she’d brought them each a mouse. 

Waverly remembers swearing as she’d slid her finger under the fold, and cracked the wax seal to pieces. She’d wanted to keep it: as a memory. Pin the envelope to her wall, as some kind of proof that Hogwarts had chosen to make her _special_.

_God._ She’d yanked that badge from the envelope and stuck it on, parading it all day. She’d celebrated the blue and bronze until the sun’d kissed the horizon at the Homestead. She’d even been having some kind of Gus-dessert, all to herself, when Wynonna had come home, shaking the house with her muggle bike. 

She remembers Wynonna ignoring her envelope three times over before Waverly’d shoved it in her face, dead from curiosity. She remembers that Wynonna’s brow had wrinkled in that funny, cynical, indulgent way, and she’d popped the wax seal up perfect. That she’d yanked the letters out without ceremony. Even that she’d stared a little harder than usual, at the _thickness_ of it all, and said something about the N.E.W.T.s being a pain. 

It hadn’t been long before Wynonna’d shown her the Head Girl badge, yellow and gleaming, and grinned in her face. _Take that, Prefect Earp Junior,_ she’d said.

Waverly'd kept a long, cold silence, and walked away.

Now, Wynonna sticks her middle finger up, and Waverly crashes back.

‘Okay. Boy Who fucking _Lived_ had dead parents and no prefect badge, okay? And Dumbledore was _super_ close,’ she says, flipping her hair. If they’d been anyone else, Wynonna would be gone. Acting like she has a charm, impervious to the world around her; like she’s used to being alone.

Waverly knows that _that_ isn’t true. Nicole meets her gaze, and sighs.

‘Wyatt Earp was Head Boy once, too,’ she offers, from her time in detention. Third-year Nicole Haught, punching a kid for slapping a girl in the face, gets sent to Filch for punishment. She’s polished every trophy in the room, and the names have stuck. Not her finest moment; just one of her proudest.

Wynonna makes a face. ‘He killed like, seventy-seven people on Hogwarts grounds. That’s gotta count for a shitty _Head Boy_.’

Waverly thinks to remind her that it’d been a _war_. That Wyatt Earp hadn’t _picked a fight_ with every sidelong gaze he’d received, the way her sister does, with her temper alight, but? Doesn’t seem the right time.

‘They trust you, Wynonna,’ she says instead, folding her arms. ‘McGonagall thinks you’re…right for the job.’ 

‘Oh, yeah.’ She scoffs, holding a hand up. ‘ _Totally_ McGonagall’s decision. Probably thinks the guys’ll be too pussy to piss me off.’ Wynonna lines the pasty up with the barrel of her wand, and sets it on fire. Waverly winces as it burns to a crisp.

‘…Yeah,’ Nicole agrees, after a pause, easing back against the wall of their compartment. She doesn’t flinch, when Wynonna glares. ‘But–okay. That’s a good reason. Not a lotta things docking _house points_ can do, after 1998. _Five points_ used to be a big ass deal, if a prefect caught you sneaking around–’ 

‘ _Please_. You could get five points for helping a first-year,’ Wynonna groans.

‘And it used to just be one,’ Waverly says. ‘The ghosts…talk about it, sometimes.’

There’s a sombre pause. They know the ghosts she’s talking about; the students, haunting the halls, after the second war. Kids, of every age, and every house. Myrtle’s beside herself with some kind of morbid glee.

Wynonna recovers first, shaking it out. ‘So you think _McGonagall_ wants me hexing through half the student body.’

Nicole’s eyes widen. ‘That is _not_ what I said.’

‘My _perspective_.’

Waverly intercepts, calm and reassuring. ‘All you gotta do is help the prefects,’ she says, slow. ‘Hold the meeting, with Perry, and agree on patrol instructions. And we’ll both be there, okay? Prefect’s honour.’

‘That’s _so_ not a thing.’ Wynonna crawls across the compartment, sitting herself beside her sister, and dropping her head into her shoulder to muffle the groan. For a moment, she thinks a little too hard about flinging her badge into the countryside, lost in the fields on the way to the school. ‘Dolls used to say that.’

She whines aloud. ‘–God, I miss _Dolls_.’

Nicole meets Waverly’s gaze, and the latter gives an imperceptible nod.

‘You know what,’ Nicole says, taking the cue, and dipping her gaze to her watch. Waverly thinks it makes a nice touch. Wynonna doesn’t even notice, nesting herself in her sister’s shoulder and hair. ‘I gotta get to work. Check on the students at the back of the train, make sure they’re not…stupefied in the hall, or–whatever.’

‘Kill ‘em hard, Haught,’ she says instead, muffled. ‘Stay alert.’

She nods in return. Waverly watches as she dusts herself off, digging in her pockets for her wand. Nicole, then armed and ready, points a ‘ _scourgify_ ’ at the ash of pumpkin pasty. 

It’s sweet, even if it seems to take the varnish off the floor. 

Just as she slides the door open, Nicole pauses, and leans back in. ‘If she needs him, Perry’s two compartments down.’

Waverly gives a silent ‘ _ah_ ’ in thanks. She nods, and wraps an arm around her moping-Head-Girl sister. ‘See you later, Nicole.’

Nicole smiles over her shoulder, on her way out. 

* * *

Wynonna stands with Perry Crofte at the head of the table in the prefects’ cabin when Chrissy Nedley comes in, completing their number. Not that anyone hears, when she apologises. Not that anyone pays her a scrap of attention, while she scurries for the place beside Waverly, when Wynonna Earp stands in among them. When there’re two Hufflepuff seventh-year girls, in one prefect cabin; when there’s a proper five Ravenclaws, while their sixth is Head Boy. Chrissy might as well have come in _blue_.

Waverly sits by her partner, back oddly straight. Her badge sits neat, on her breast; charmed to place itself, after a misguided attempt to pin it on herself. Her hair sits in a braid, now, from nervous fiddling. Still, she thinks she’s the better off of the two. Jeremy seems to be rubbing through his pants with his sweaty palms, and Waverly hasn’t the heart to tell him to stop, or that everyone’s noticing. 

Nicole is sat with Lonnie and she looks like death warms over, whenever he opens his mouth. So, she’s talking to the older girl beside her, like she’s helping with distraction. Telling her some story about her muggle summer, no doubt, in Canada. Something about being a police recruit and a rock climbing trip drifts over, while they talk, and the seventh-year laughs. Nicole glances over, then, and Waverly smiles. 

They’ve got this, she decides, when Perry clears his throat.

Attention snaps to the front like he’s popped a rubber band.

‘So,’ he begins, resting his hands on the table. ‘Welcome to another year. Welcome to our fifth-years.’ There’s a quick exchange of glances, across the table, and Perry tries to crack a smile. ‘Uh, you’re gonna love the bathroom.’

Chrissy and Jeremy laugh. It’s polite, and forced. Waverly smiles at him, when he catches her gaze. They both know she loves that bathroom already, and that she’s never been there alone. 

The thought feels wrong, when Wynonna shifts her gaze, and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. Waverly twists her hands in her lap.

Perry sweeps his hand from the table, and straightens up. ‘Duties are standard. We patrol this train until we reach Hogsmeade station, and then we make sure everyone gets in a carriage.’ He taps his wand against his hand, thinking, and glances to Wynonna. 

She juts her bottom lip out, and shrugs. Perry pauses, like he’s searching her gaze.

Wynonna gives him a look, a thumbs-up, and a smile.

Perry’s got a distinct grimace in his lips that says ‘unbelievable’, when he carries on. ‘Right. Well–remember to clear the _contraband_ as soon as you can,’ he says, though a thick of frustration. ‘Sooner it’s out, easier your job’s gonna be all year. So I want you to make some plans with your team, and get settled.’ 

There’s a gentle hum of conversation, at that. Plans begin to fly, between partners; experience, across the years, shared about the _litany_ of ways to sneak it through. Charms and spells the normal students never use, when they aren’t on security and patrol. Jinxes that don’t hurt, to scare off younger kids. For a while, it’s prefectorial. It’s calm, and distracted from the giant white elephant in a very small train car.

Waverly talks to Jeremy, for a moment. Deciding on routes for the tour, when they take the first-years to the dormitories. They talk about the possibility of staircases being switched, while they’re en route, and what to do with the ones left behind. Over their shoulders, a sixth-year tells them to watch for the fanged frisbees; still banned, and still in high supply, if you know where to look. First years are the worst, they agree together, and there’s a brief laugh. 

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Samantha ‘Perky-Tits’ Baker looks up from the Slytherin huddle and sticks her hand in the air.

Wynonna points her chin at her, like she hasn’t got a clue about the bait. ‘What?’ 

‘Sorry,’ she says slowly, and taking care to be loud, wearing the snakelike smile that suits her. She pauses, a moment, like she’s thinking. Mulling the whole thing over, while she gets the attention she wants.

She looks to Perry then, like Wynonna isn’t there, and she smiles. 

‘We’re all still trying to wrap our heads around why anyone would give Wynonna Earp a badge.’

_Oh boy_. The room is quiet. Nicole bites her lip.

Waverly watches her shift under the attention, oscillating her weight between her feet like she can’t quite find her seat in the saddle. She doesn’t cower, under the weight of a sharp accusation. Not when it’s a rodeo she’s done before, over and over and _over_ , without the want to punch Samantha Baker in her fucked-up teeth.

She knows the look in her sister’s eyes, when she grabs her wand from her pocket. Wynonna’s going all… _Wynonna_ , again.

‘You and me both, sister,’ she says, walking herself on over. She taps the tip of her wand to Samantha’s shoulder, in a tap-tap-tap; she stops right behind her, too, and wears her lips in that growing smile. ‘McGonagall’s gotta have _something_ in that drink of hers.’ 

_Nail in your coffin, buddy,_ Waverly thinks. 

Wynonna plants a hand down on the table so hard that Chrissy jumps, and Waverly rests a hand on her knee. It’s not a great image, when Wynonna raises her aim high enough to land the whole table, and the lot of them have to let her speak. Maybe it’s worse, seeing Sam Baker lean a little further than usual to the right, like she’s going to piss her pants.

It’s now that Waverly thinks she’s lucky Wynonna loves her. Because it’s so, _so_ different, when she’s mad at home. 

This girl’s got enough hardened skin and armour to protect the whole Auror department at the Ministry of Magic through a dragon fire storm. 

‘So let’s just get this shit over with,’ she says, canting her head to the side, letting the curls tip in tow. ‘Every Earp generation’s got a Head Boy till now. And Willa Earp would’ve been Head Girl. Willa would’ve been the _good sister_ , but they took the good one into the hills and _slaughtered her_.’

Jeremy presses his lips into a concerned line; some recoil, with the memory, while Waverly keeps her eyes on her sister.

She thinks she sees the scene flash, in some pairs of eyes. That third-year Care of Magical Creatures class, with Daddy, in the middle of the night. Willa, fifth-year Slytherin prefect, by his side; Professor Ward Earp, in front of his Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, telling them about the wolves, and the danger of the Forest behind them.

God, it’d been surprising, when the wolves had come from the trees. When their teeth had taken blood, and Willa and Daddy. It’d been worse, when a misplaced ‘ _sectumsempra_ ’ fires off Ward’s own wand, in the hands of a little girl, and lands square between her father’s shoulders. 

Waverly thinks Wynonna only sees Willa scream, as she’s dragged away, when she clears her throat, and blinks the image from her eyes.

The whole room is watching when Wynonna returns to Perry’s side, and pockets her wand once more.

‘So,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘I’m the goddamn Head Girl. You gotta a problem with that, you’re gonna have to suck on the fact that you lost the Slytherin to the Forest.’ 

There’s a long lull of silence, and no one moves.

Wynonna stares.

‘–Now. Get the hell out and _patrol_ , assholes.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @halfearp on Tumblr for suffering through the writing process with me, and for catching tons of the errors you don't see. x

Unfortunately, word spreads like a bushfire at Hogwarts, and there’s no way to contain the story with the prefects. Nicole’s pretty sure she hears some Ravenclaw girl in the next-door carriage say something about a curse on Samantha Baker’s face before they’ve even reached the castle for the welcome feast. The Gryffindor chasers in her thestral carriage _want_ to talk about what Earp had said, while throwing about her wand, and ‘cursing them to the Forbidden Forest’; they bug her all the way to the Great Hall, though Nicole never breaks the seal on her lips. 

Over at the Hufflepuff table, Wynonna sits alone, fixing her gaze to McGonagall’s side. And though the festivities of the feast sprawl late into the night, Nicole never quite manages to catch her eye.

After that, there’s conspicuous silence about Wynonna Earp, save for the hushed bathroom whispers, or dormitory talks. Nicole hears almost two weeks of rumour after rumour while Waverly sits in Hufflepuff, and holds her sister’s hand.

Nicole thinks she sees Wynonna snatching her hand free once, stalking off.

She might’ve gone over, a morning or two, if she hadn’t been rushing her third essay of the year, pushing her elbow into a stray bit of porridge while she’d tried to scribble with a broken quill; if quidditch sign-ups hadn’t crept up on her, as a new, unsupervised captain; if she’d had _any_ luck with Lonnie as a prefect partner, on their rotations for patrol. 

Maybe if Professor Nedley hadn’t decided to get real interested in her cadet training, over the summer, acting as a muggle; if he hadn’t set it down as homework for her Muggle Studies class, demanding it for use in her N.E.W.T.s. If she hadn’t had to deal with the tidal wave of sixth year, washing her away? She’d be there. She wants to be.

Meanwhile, September 11th has crept its way up, and the Gryffindors are due on the pitch for tryouts. It’s an early morning, and she gives a tiny wave to the Gryffindor boys, hanging on to their brooms, as they watch her leave; she dips a nod as a quick greeting to her chasers, getting ready to go. She barely pauses, by the notice board, to grab those sign-up sheets–she’s already a couple minutes off the schedule she’d like, and she wants a warm-up fly. 

So it’s a jog down the corridor to the exit, and she pits her shoulder against the door–

‘ _Whoa_!’

–shoving the Fat Lady right into Waverly Earp.

Badly-knotted-tie, crooked-badge, crooked-collar Waverly Earp, looking a little out of breath, and just a _bit_ unwound. The pleats of her uniform sit in slight crease and disarray, even if she’s got all the pieces on, like she’s late for a class. It’s not the kind of look you expect for a Saturday morning. No one’s supposed to have anywhere to be, until Monday.

Plus, she’s definitely never seen Waverly up here, by their common room. Not with _that_ kind of messy braid on her shoulder, like she hasn’t had it done in hours. Like Waverly–who’s an infamous, meticulous planner–hadn’t quite thought to be on the other side of the Gryffindor door, two or three days in advance.

Waverly winces as she touches her nose, and Nicole realises she’s staring like an asshole.

‘–Sorry,’ she says quickly, dropping her broom to her side. ‘You okay?’

‘…No, no. Totally my bad,’ Waverly says, dropping her hand to her side. A belated smile dials up on her lips, instead. It’s warm, apologetic, and a little too bright for the morning. ‘Running in the halls, y’know? Bad prefect. Sorry.’

Nicole finds herself smiling, too. It’s infectious.

‘ _Pretty_ sure you weren’t gonna run through a painting, Waverly,’ she says, twisting her lips into a thoughtful little pout. ‘But, if you _insist_ –I’m gonna have to write you up.’ She pauses, leaning in. ‘Don’t you make me do that.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Are you _serious_?’

Nicole can’t help the laugh that follows. She takes Waverly’s arm, and dragging her a little to the side. Out of sight of the painting, and out of the way of any more possible deaths by wooden frames. No one really wants the Fat Lady breaking out in a new tirade, if you get the chance to move out of her way. Trust her–things get way worse than jostling her canvas.

Once they’re a bit further down the wall, Nicole slows to a stop, and lets go.

‘…Thanks,’ Waverly says, after a pause. ‘Don’t know if your portrait could’ve taken much more of me. I mean, she’s _super_ cranky! Told me to stand around and wait–’

‘Yeah,’ Nicole chuckles, obliging. She cards a hand through the end of her braid, looking over her shoulder to glimpse a Gryffindor’s entry. ‘She does that. Kinda thinks everyone’s out to prank us, which is…’

‘Fair,’ Waverly sighs.

‘Uh. _Yup_. A whole house of troublemakers makes for a _lot_ of revenge.’

‘…Right.’ Waverly doesn’t sound convinced when she concedes, but she twists her hands together. The smile fades for a moment, as she gets distracted in her thoughts. Around them, the air seems to dip into something a little less _light_. ‘Well, whatever she’s doing, she didn’t think _you_ were in. When I said I needed to talk to you.’

Surprise hits Nicole as a flutter in her chest, and she’s forced to drop her gaze. 

‘–Me,’ she repeats, slow.

‘Yeah,’ Waverly sighs. She opens and closes her mouth, once or twice, like she’s searching for the words. When Nicole comes to meet her eyes again, the veil’s firmly dropped, and the worry’s on soft display. ‘Listen, it’s…about Wynonna. Did she come to see you?’

Nicole’s brow dips into a frown, rippling at the little pool of guilt she’s had at her feet.

‘Haven’t talked to her since first day,’ Nicole says, slow. She slides a hand into her pocket, fiddling with her wand. ‘Been _really_ busy with class, and… sorry,’ she stops, seeing the lines on Waverly’s forehead, and the way she props her hand up on her hip. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?’ 

‘It’s not you.’ Waverly presses a finger into her forehead, and throws it up in the air. ‘She’s just–not in her common room, and I was with Perry–’

_Definitely Friday’s uniform_ , Nicole thinks, though it never crosses her face.

‘And we usually…go to breakfast together. I pick her up, and we go. But she wasn’t there. And she’s been _doing that_ , you know? Running off, leaving me behind.’

When Nicole thinks back to dinner, she draws a solid blank. She remembers the last thing John Henry’d said in her Defence class, about _working on her draw_ , and his homework about the American magic of the West. She remembers sitting down for some kind of fish, with her friends, and complaining about their sheer exhaustion. She remembers glancing to the Hufflepuff table, as she usually does–and then, there’s nothing there.

Nicole bites her lip, and moves her hand back to Waverly’s shoulder.

‘Hey,’ she says, trying for something reassuring. ‘She’s been doing a good job with the whole…Head Girl thing. Right? Maybe she just needs a break.’

Waverly sucks a breath in, and doesn’t look up. ‘It’s her birthday,’ she grumbles through an exhale. ‘Could’ve taken a break tomorrow. I made a cake.’

Nicole opts for a smile at the thought of Wynonna Earp at anyone’s convenience. Least of all her sister’s, while she’s been trampling the kid for as long as she can. (Not that Waverly deserves that; not that she’s a child, anymore, to be under the foot of her big sister.) ‘Yeah, well, maybe you need a break from watching her,’ she offers. ‘I mean. She can’t have gone past the grounds, or Hogsmeade. Just seventeen, no license, can’t apparate–good chances of finding her again.’

‘God. Like I could _ever_ stop watching her,’ Waverly groans. ‘She’d set your _tower_ on fire, if you left her alone with an _incendio_ and a little too much firewhisky.’

Nicole looks at her, horrified. Waverly nods through a silent ‘ _yup_ ’, as if it’s a victory.

‘Anyway,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘I’ve gotta go. I said I’d catch Perry if Wynonna didn’t show–’

‘–Oh! Yeah. No problem.’ Nicole glances to the time, too, and alarm takes her words a little too quickly. Too close to ten o’clock, for comfort. Definitely about time for her to fly her way out to the pitch, if she’s going to make it in time. ‘I gotta–’

‘Quidditch tryouts,’ Waverly says, nodding through her chuckle. She sweeps a hand gently at the ensemble, red and gold, and _very_ stark. ‘I gotcha.’

‘…Right,’ Nicole agrees, looking down at the parade of Gryffindor pride. As red as Waverly’s tie is blue, she supposes, in copious excess. Still, she doesn’t leave. Not yet, while there’s still worry in the younger Earp’s brow. ‘But–if you ever need anything, and if you ever need somewhere to go–’

Waverly looks up.

‘–The password’s “Hemingway”. Like the muggle author.’

And then Nicole’s gone. 

* * *

It’s no damn surprise that Waverly doesn’t see hide or hair of Wynonna until food on the table begins to vanish at the end of their late night supper. She’s been sat there for the better part of the night, by then; ankles crossed under the bench, beside Chrissy and her friends, completely out of place. Waverly thinks she remembers _something_ about a love potion when Stephanie Jones had slid in beside them, for a whole half-hour. She thinks she remembers telling Stephanie off for using it a second time in the same guise of a treacle tart, met with a hard roll of the Slytherin’s eyes. Waverly’d paused and said something about principle, even if she doesn’t know who it’s for, or when it’s due to blow that poor guy’s heart to shit.

It’s happened twice by now. The same pattern: Wynonna goes off, by herself, all day. Disappears to somewhere on the grounds, getting herself lost, or flying Gus’s broom around to keep herself calm. Comes back whenever she pleases, and looks for Waverly in the morning. Acts like nothing’s gone wrong. Acts like Waverly doesn’t have eyes, and doesn’t notice the wayward glances to the Forest. Brush it off, when Waverly asks. Repeat when needed.

They’re halfway through a third time of their stupid routine of _avoid-Waverly_ when Wynonna barges in through the door, carrying more dirt in her yellow-lined hood than the back of Gus’s truck, trudging right down the center of the Great Hall. She’s got wild eyes, as she stalks along the central path. It’s like she’s distracted in a haze; like she’s seen worse than the Bloody Baron, heaving through a student body. 

She’s got eyes as wild as the day Daddy died, and the heads in the hall have already turned to stare. 

Something different’s gone wrong.

Waverly pushes against the table to get up. She’s soft and urgent, when Wynonna passes. ‘Hey.’

But Wynonna keeps on walking, screwing her eyes to the door ahead. Waverly’s brow dips as Wynonna’s hand sticks deep into her pocket, protective.

She calls out again, stepping out to follow her.

‘Wynonna!’ 

She calls once, then twice. 

Wynonna seems deaf when she bangs the door shut. 

Despite herself, Waverly feels her walk grow urgent, and breaking into a jog. She catches Nicole’s look, out of the corner of her eye; it holds only a second, before the redhead stands to follow.

Waverly shoves the door open in turn, following through, and the door bangs once more. Her mind races, with every possibility. That there’ve been people, cursing her on the grounds. That there’s been some jinxed talisman, out in Hogsmeade, that Wynonna’s gone and touched. That some broom accident’s shoved her into a huge pile of leaves, and that it’s all _shame_.

‘Where’d you _go_ , huh?’ she calls down the corridor, never letting a step out of rhythmic speed. 

Wynonna doesn’t stop, even when she looks over her shoulder. Her hands stay deep in her pockets, like she’s hiding from the wandering eyes of a dim street with broken lamps. Her eyes fix briefly on her sister, at the corners of the stairs–on the way to Hufflepuff, no doubt, in a pattern she knows to go home. But when she turns the hard corner of the familiar corridor, and walks by the painting with the ticklish pear, Waverly’s still got no explanation.

So Waverly grabs her by the elbow, and drags Wynonna to the nearest wall. Wynonna hisses into the pain of the stone, pressed into her back, and Waverly doesn’t find enough sympathy to let up. Besides; only reliable thing about her sister’s that she wouldn’t raise her wand to hurt her. Only thing she’s ever known to be true.

‘I know that look,’ she accuses instead, as Nicole catches up. ‘You wanna just _run off_ again? Where the hell’ve you been, Wynonna?’

‘Minding my own _goddamn_ shit,’ Wynonna grunts, trying to pry herself free. 

Waverly scoffs. ‘Right. You couldn’t _tell_ me you were going off? I _worried_ about you–!’

‘ _Don’t_ worry. God, be _normal_ , Waverly–’

‘–Okay. _Whoa_ ,’ Nicole says, grabbing them both, and pulling them apart. ‘Easy, Wynonna. Easy.’

Waverly grabs her wand from her pocket, out of instinct, once they’re stood against both walls of a narrow corridor. This isn’t how she’d like it to be; not when the ticklish pear’s just a minute’s walk away, and they could be having something _domestic_. Sneak a little dinner for Wynonna, have a _talk_ , and know that she’s safe. Something that isn’t a head-pounding nightmare every three days, while Waverly tries to keep Hogwarts as safe as she can.

‘Something happened to you,’ she says to her sister, low. It’s a a statement; not a question. 

‘I wish,’ Wynonna laughs, dry and empty, shaking her curls in matted disarray. She raises a hand to comb roughly through her hair, throwing it up in frustration. ‘There was nothing there, it–’

‘Where?’ Nicole asks, quiet and gently probing.

‘There’s nothing there,’ Wynonna snaps. ‘She’s going to be fine.’

Waverly bristles. ‘Wait. _Who’s_ going to be fine–’

‘Forget it!’ Wynonna waves her hand in Waverly’s face, dismissive. ‘Look. I’m just going to go…get a firewhisky, get _super_ drunk, and go to bed. No more sobriety, no more problems. I mean, I’ve already got a visit from McGonagall, this morning–’

Waverly can’t help the way her face twists in surprise. ‘ _What_?’ 

Nicole balks. ‘What’d you do?’

‘Mm. See. Not me, surprisingly–someone’s _torn up_ Curtis’s portrait. Clean off its hinges, on the fifth floor,’ Wynonna says, as the _wildness_ seems to come right back. She leans in, for a moment, like she’s dangerous. ‘And McGonagall has me look for him. And when I _find_ him, he’s–’

Wynonna swallows, like a skip in her tape of tonight’s _crazy_. Waverly thinks she sees the ghost of a tear, in her eyes, and doesn’t say a word.

Nicole, however, doesn’t pause. ‘What?’

Wynonna looks up at her, only for a second, before she looks to Waverly. ‘Headless,’ she breathes. ‘Totally headless. They managed to slash it off in the portrait before he made it out. So. Totally enough for one fucking day, going to bed–’

‘They _decapitated_ a portrait?’ Waverly thinks she hears Nicole asking, as she feels a chill down her spine.

Uncle Curtis had only been dead a couple weeks, by now; barely had a funeral of more than fifteen people, at the Homestead, and all of them old witches and wizards. None of them had a clue about the body. None of them had asked to see it. 

None of them had known that it’d had its head taken off, before they’d even found him. So, who the _hell_ was watching them? Who the hell keeps an eye out for the Earps, when they’re in school, and not causing any trouble–

Oh, _Merlin_. Wynonna’s an _Earp_. How the _hell_ aren’t they thinking about _that_?

‘It’s starting again, isn’t it,’ Waverly whispers, to no one in particular, as the gears begin to turn, and insist upon the path they’re taking forward. She locks her eyes on Wynonna, and knows that they aren’t _ready_. They’ve never thought to be, after Willa’s death, and after the death of Daddy’s old stories. _God_. He’d never said anything about an _age_ to either of them–

Wynonna’s staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, but Waverly only has one thought in mind. ‘We’re gonna need that _wand_.’

Wynonna slaps her. 

‘– _Ow!_ ’

‘I told you _never_ to talk about that!’ she shouts, tightening her hand into a fist.

Waverly folds her arms around herself.

‘Then why do you look so _spooked_ , huh?’ she demands. ‘It’s your _seventeenth_ birthday–’

Wynonna shoves her wand into her pocket, glancing up to Nicole. ‘It doesn’t _mean_ anything,’ she says, though she presses her lips into a hard, white line. With Waverly and Nicole, Wynonna’s about as good an actress as a first year trying to lie about his collection of extendable ears.

‘…Sorry,’ Nicole interjects, holding up her wand in her hand. ‘I don’t– _What_ doesn’t mean anything, exactly?’

‘The Earp _curse_ ,’ Waverly grinds out, before Wynonna can slam out the end of her ‘ _Nothing_.’

Nicole squeezes her eyes shut for a long, pained second. ‘Okay. And what’s the Earp–’

‘–Hey, Nicole?’

Wynonna has her wand like a switchblade at the poor guy’s throat, before he’s done with his breath.

In the shadows, the bright, obnoxious red of the Gryffindor lapels frame Lonnie’s face.

Waverly moves first. She grabs Wynonna by the inside of her elbow, dragging her weapon from Lonnie’s face. She almost thinks she sees his pulse shifting, under his skin, as the surprise takes him–not close enough to terror, like he’s too _stupid_ to realise her threat. Behind her, Nicole is quick to pocket her wand, and to turn around.

Nothing to see here, it all says, as the redhead steps into the light.

‘…Hey, Lonnie. You need something?’ Nicole asks, oddly even.

Lonnie brushes a hand down his robes, stepping back, and propping a hand up on his hip. He looks to Nicole, and then back into the dark; he nods to Wynonna, concerned.

‘…You okay there, Wynonna?’

‘Yeah. Peachy. Thanks.’ Wynonna lets her gaze move slow: up, then down, like she’s going to peel his robes from his person to find herself a threat to shoot. ‘Not the first guy to try and hex me on a first encounter.’

‘Oh, no. Wouldn’t dare, ma’am,’ he says, raising his hands, letting his laugh fill the space. It doesn’t meet any kin, while the girls still wait for him to _leave_. ‘Don’t believe the rumours. If you ask me, there’s a whole lotta things we gotta watch out for in the grounds–’

‘–We really need a bathroom,’ Nicole interjects suddenly, waving a hand in front of his face to hold his short attention. ‘Super urgently, okay? Two minutes, max. So what do you want?’

Lonnie finally pales. Waverly tries not to smile.

‘You seen Kiersten Lesko?’ he asks finally, lowering his voice. ‘Seventh-year girl. She didn’t show at dinner, and her friends won’t get upstairs for curfew without seeing her.’

Nicole raises a brow. ‘You’re…a prefect,’ she says slowly, holding his gaze. ‘You gotta just…send them to bed, and take the points, Lonnie–’

‘–I’ll find her,’ Wynonna says, suddenly, and Nicole doesn’t hide her surprise.

Wynonna’s back has tightened to a rod, and Waverly watches her out of the corner of her eye. Her sister’s knuckles are white in the grip of her wand; like the shaft’s going to splinter in her fingers, if Lonnie stays a little too long.

Unfortunately, guy in question blinks, and tilts his head past his view of Nicole’s shoulder.

He smiles at her. ‘Sorry? Didn’t catch that–’

‘–I said I’ll _find_ her, shit-for-brains. And if you don’t want me to replace her with _your_ reanimated body, you’re not gonna ask me again.’ Wynonna takes a step, voice low and warning, while Lonnie takes a clear step back.

It’s not on the list of moves they’re putting on the list for a ball, when Waverly teaches Wynonna to dance. She doesn’t need her sister on some kind of murder tango on the dance floor before they’re out of school, and free to get the hell on the run. Even if Lonnie’s too stupid to move of his own accord.

Wynonna raises her wand. It doesn’t look promising. ‘ _Move_.’

Lonnie’s out of that corridor before she counts to five. And, as soon as he’s turned the corner to the stairs, Wynonna shoves hard at Waverly’s grasp, and leaves a long streak of dirt on Waverly’s white sleeves. A trail of earth and some parts of broken leaves, like it’s been drawn from the floor of–

God, it’s like it’s from the floor of a huge, old _forest_.

A forbidden forest.

_There was nothing there_ , Wynonna’d said. _She was going to be fine_.

Waverly’s eyes go wide.

‘–You know where she is,’ she says aloud, brushing hard at the stain, and grabbing at Wynonna’s filthy sleeve. ‘My God, she’s in the–’ 

Wynonna slaps her, again, and grabs her sister by the collar. 

‘– _Ow_. Stop it!’

‘Shut the _hell up_ , baby girl–’

‘I can _help_ you, Wynonna!’

Nicole turns around once Lonnie’s footsteps have died in the stairwell, and catches the flash of Wynonna’s eyes as she lets Waverly go. It’s like she’s had a nightmare with her eyes wide open; that it’s a dream that still growls in her ear, driving her to leave.

Waverly steps behind Nicole, loosening the noose of her tie. She nods, when Nicole casts her a glance over her shoulder.

‘Wynonna,’ Nicole starts, with that vote of confidence. ‘You wanna tell me what’s going on?’

Wynonna spins her wand in her restless fingers, and props her arm against the wall to think. She dips her head against the cool stone, for a moment; the curls shroud her face from view, while Waverly is forced to catch Nicole’s eye. The confusion and concern meet in equal measure, and both move closer to listen. 

‘Fine. _I_ need to get onto the grounds,’ Wynonna says finally, muffled by her hair.

Nicole levels her a look of disbelief, after a glance to the time. Somewhere between concern for the rules, stamped into the prefect badges on their chests, and the warnings of the Welcome Feast. The grounds have always had minds of its own, after dark–well ensconced in the power of older magic than the Hogwarts walls. ‘–That’s insane. Going out alone, going without a professor–what the hell’s on the grounds?’

Wynonna figures her face into a mocking innocence.

‘Uh–just that Kiersten Lesko might’ve been seen outside…by me–’

‘ _What_?’

But Wynonna isn’t there for the conference. No; she’s already off in a hard, trucking walk back to the Great Hall, and it’s breaking into a jog. Talk about trying to shoot a fish in a barrel as a witness for the crime. 

‘Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake– _Wynonna_!’ Waverly shouts, taking off behind her.

‘…Just _shut up_ and keep up!’ Wynonna yells back, halfway down the corridor toward the stairs. ‘Nicole’s stupid _Gryffindor_ dipped in there for a _piss_ a long ass while ago, and she is _not_ gonna make it back with ladies who lunch.’

Nicole feels the wind leave the cavity of her chest.

* * *

 There’s no moon, once they’re in the cold of the castle grounds. The castle barely finds its silhouette against the darkness of the night, in the thick fog that settles. The sky wears itself a heavy coat of clouds that leaves the grass smelling damp and the water of the great lake echoing loud into expanses of abandoned grass. Hogwarts after dark, Waverly decides, is _way_ worse than anything the Ravenclaws do in the common room for Halloween.

She’s well out of breath as they pelt through another pile of leaves, and Waverly shouts to Wynonna’s back. ‘You let her get into the _Forbidden Forest_? Wynonna–!’

‘–Yeah, because stalking a girl to the bathroom’s the _right_ thing to do,’ Wynonna hollers back, spitting through her heaving lungs. ‘It was a _while_ ago, okay? The _sun_ was still up.’

Nicole winces through a stitch in her side, glancing down at her watch. ‘That’s…gotta be more than five hours, Earp–’

‘–Okay. Cool it with the math, Haught-stuff.’

‘So where the hell have you _been_? Where were you an _hour_ ago?’ 

‘Oh, like–’ Wynonna manages a short laugh, and her eyes go wide with a touch of incredulity. ‘ _Super_ close to drowning. It was crazy.’

Waverly nearly trips over a twig, when she tries to grab Wynonna by the hood. ‘ _What_?’

‘–Giant squid gives _great_ hugs, baby girl! Really tries to choke you if you poke it too hard.’

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Waverly remembers Gus’s face, on the platform. Warning them to keep _out_ of trouble, to keep their hides out of the fire, and to stay on the good side of the school law. She thinks two weeks _might_ be a whole new record for Wynonna. And now, she’s in charge of a _whole_ bunch of people staying in line. 

This has gotta be the worst thing they’ve ever done, since Wynonna’s third year. 

‘Okay, okay. Whoa,’ Nicole is saying, as the forest looms into view, and their steps begin to slow. As their ears are filled with more than the sound of their breath; surrounded by a small cacophony of insects, and the rustle of the leaves. Nicole comes up beside Wynonna, faring the best of a breathless lot, and grabbing her by the shoulder. ‘Girl goes into the forest and you take a dip in the _Great Lake_?’

‘Gotta moisturise somewhere, Haught,’ Wynonna says, flippant. She tosses Nicole’s hand off her arm, dusting the touch from her sleeve. ‘Relax.’ 

‘Yeah, cut the _shit_ , Wynonna,’ Nicole says, voice mounting in the silence. ‘We’re out here _helping_ you, and I don’t really want to die out here because you won’t _talk_ about your synchronised swimming championship. What’s in the lake?’ 

Waverly, meanwhile, finds her run stopping a little earlier than she’d like, at the edge of the shadows before her. Even with the tip of her wand lit, a moment later, she can barely shake the mood of a presence _watching_. 

Wynonna doesn’t surrender, and she straightens up to her full height, pressing a finger to Nicole’s chest. ‘None of your goddamn business,’ she says, deep in her throat. ‘And she’s _your_ Gryffindor. Okay? _We’re_ helping _you_.’

Waverly thinks it might've meant something if Nicole wasn’t that much taller, and if the redhead didn’t snatch away from the touch.

‘You let one of _your friends_ into the forest,’ Nicole returns flatly. Still, she doesn’t linger. She draws her wand, stalking toward the edge of the trees, wand lighting in the darkness. She steps right through the uneasy air Waverly can’t quite wade into; Waverly’s left to take her slower steps behind her, and feeling the fresh turn of her stomach.

Wynonna’s face sours, but she trudges ahead, reaching down into her boots to adjust her socks.

‘Hey!’ Nicole flinches as Wynonna’s voice booms into a ripple of echoes, against every untoward thing in the goddamn forest. Way to throw up a flare, Earp. Way to attract _everything_ that wants to kill you to the scent of fresh blood. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll kill you!’

The earth around them _hums_ with something untoward. Nicole’s never felt anything like it, watching Wynonna jog from tree to tree, and to the fallen trunks that must’ve come from a storm; there’s never been this sort of magic, in the floor of a muggle forest. It weighs heavy, on her shoulders, and on the aim of her wand–like if Nicole tries to fire now, in a misshapen try for a duel, she’ll never shoot straight.

‘Kiersten?’ Waverly calls, behind them, wrapping her arms around herself. Nicole takes a step back to keep her company.

‘Let her go!’ Wynonna is yelling, ahead, ducking under another log, and surfacing on the other side. Nicole and Waverly barely follow without a twig or two to catch in their hoods; moss littered over the black of their robes, staining them green. 

Nicole licks her lips against the chill that seems to settle, around them. There’s the heat of Waverly’s shoulder, pressed into her back; there’s the warmth of her wand in her hand; there’s nothing but the expanse of cold in every other spot of the clearing they’ve found. It’s like the fog’s found a wet, thick home in the space. 

‘You expecting someone?’ she asks quietly, looking over her shoulder to Waverly. 

But Wynonna doesn’t give them time, and silence. ‘We’re armed!’ 

‘…Poorly,’ Waverly mutters, stepping past Nicole to swap them around.

‘Kiersten!’ Nicole tries, then–hearing her voice in eight different echoes, touched off the wood that seems to have eyes. ‘Wynonna, I don’t–’

And then her hair flies like a red curtain in a bad prairie wind, and their wands go out.

_Shit._

The winds are dark. The gales come from every direction, like a tornado in Alberta, and they can’t see through the flight of badly-planned hair. When it passes Nicole again, it’s like a _hand_ brushes her shoulder, and leaves her smelling of the earth around them. For a hair of a second, when she pins her eyes to the light of the forest’s edge, she’s hallucinating the red eyes of a creature in her nightmares, visible in the dark of the forest. 

Somewhere, Wynonna’s swearing a _fucking hell shit fuck_ before she grabs Waverly from Nicole, dragging her sister between them.

‘Kind of a shit birthday party,’ Waverly says hurriedly, as the both of them surround her.

Wynonna turns her head, brief. ‘Is it midnight?’ she demands.

‘Uh–another thirty seconds?’ Nicole offers, through her wand barely keeps its tip alight enough to read her watch for accuracy.

A howl sounds to Nicole’s right, _barely_ past the first row of trees. Way too close for comfort.

She’s thinking back to the _story_ she’d heard, back in second year. That Wynonna, Ward, and Willa Earp had gone into the forest, with the wolves; that Wynonna’d killed her father in an accident, and that Willa’d never been seen again. Nicole remembers the talk of wolves. She remembers just about nothing else about what they’re meant to do, from her third year in Defence. 

But Nicole holds on a little tighter to Waverly’s arm when she spins, and points her wand blind into the dark at the noise. Better something than nothing at all.

When the wind comes again, Nicole hits it with a sharp _Locomotor mortis_ , and it rips his feet from right beneath him. 

Him–a wizard in a sparse coat of fur, barely keeping his teeth from showing in the light of their re-lit wands. Red eyes, and the smell of earth. Something right out of a nightmare, and _real_ , the whole time they’ve been here. Six whole years of never knowing what was in the forest, and Nicole thinks she might’ve been ready for another ten more.

‘Oh, Merlin,’ Waverly breathes into her ear, behind her. Their hands clasp tighter, pressed into the curve of Nicole’s back.

‘…He’s not gonna stay down,’ Wynonna says, then, though she doesn’t move to approach him. ‘And he’s not gonna be–’

‘Wynonna!’ Waverly shouts, just as a spark fires off in the distance.

‘– _Protego_! Jesus fucking _shit_ –‘ Wynonna holds her wand in an unsteady hand. ‘Alone. He’s not gonna be alone.’

Nicole looks down at her watch. ‘It’s midnight,’ she says hurriedly, shoving her watch into Wynonna’s face. ‘It’s–it’s 12:01, Wynonna. It’s 12:01.’

Waverly’s eyes widen, sudden, at a glimpse of what she thinks she sees. 

‘Wait. Is that–’

She grabs Wynonna’s wrist in an iron grip, dragging her in the light of Nicole’s wand. 

‘Is that Wyatt Earp’s wand? _Daddy’s_ wand?’

She lowers her voice into a hiss, though Wynonna tries to buck her like a rodeo bull.

‘You knew where it was this _whole_ time?’

Wynonna grunts through a crack of her neck, yanking her hand free to point it at their struggling guy. The _one_ they’ve got on the ground, thanks to a really lucky curse, and an overzealous Haught. One, of seventy-seven. Seventy-six pairs of eyes, watching their backs. 

‘Really _not the time_ , Waves,’ she bites out, pressing into the two of them, keeping her aim out.

Nicole tightens her hand on Waverly’s.

‘ _Expelliarmus_!’ Wynonna shouts, a little too loud, and her palm stays open for the sailing wand, just as Nicole casts another shield against the flying hexes.

‘…Werewolves,’ Nicole realises aloud, when she sees the wand smack into Wynonna’s hand. ‘They’re…people, the Earp curse– _werewolves_. Jesus, Waverly–’

‘Wynonna’s _technically_ the cursed one,’ Waverly says, flinging off curses of her own, and ignores the smack of the back of her head. ‘And she’s got the big, bad weapon–’

And Wynonna’s pointing that big, bad weapon down at the werewolf’s head. Nicole’s just about sure she’s lost her entire mind when the wand begins to glow gold, etching lines that run deep into the werewolf’s face. She’s going to wake up in that warm, toasty, Gryffindor four-poster bed, and have to tell Waves about the dream in the morning. It’s going to be _crazy_.

But Waverly never takes her eyes off the sight of it, old and almost familiar. 

‘ _Expulso_ ,’ Wynonna says, soft and low, as he’s set on fire, and some kind of chasm opens up in the seamless line of the ground to take his struggling form.

Nicole doesn’t think she’ll forget the sound of a howl and a cry, mixed into the scratching of a desperate dog, trying to keep itself afloat. Rooted, in some sense of vague horror and a slow onset of _illness_ , she almost doesn’t notice the warm weight that rolls toward her feet.

But Kiersten Lesko’s head stares up at her, from the earth.

Waverly screams first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have our favourite gentlemen on the table, Mr. Dolls & John Henry. /rubs hands together Also featuring some good, pure, wayhaught flirting.
> 
> As always, find me on @kibbledor/@wouldshoot on Tumblr!

When the three of them crowd on the little couch of McGonagall’s office, Waverly thinks she’s still out of breath, and that she’ll feel the ache of her thighs in the morning. But she knows better than to look around–not at her feet, for the blood on her socks. Not at the bright red of Nicole’s hood, while she bends over, with her head between her legs. Not at the statues of McGonagall’s _eclectic_ taste, littering the dim-lit walls in the dead of the night. 

She’s definitely not looking at the white shaft of the goddamn wand, in Wynonna’s hand. Wyatt Earp’s Peacemaker’s taking a long twirl in her sister’s fingers, five years after it’d been lost in Ministry investigations. After it’d been ‘taken, as badly-stored evidence, and lost in the paperwork’. Lost, long gone, and never coming back.

That story’s been told to everyone, and it’s all been a lie. She’d been stupid to think that Wynonna would tell her anything close to the truth of what happened.

They watch as Professor McGonagall stands in her nightgown with her robes haphazardly bound around her waist, bent over her fireplace for rapid conversations. By now, Nicole doesn’t remember the words that’d tumbled out of her mouth, as soon as they’d gotten through the gargoyle, and disturbed the headmaster’s sleep. She doesn’t remember if they’d gotten every word they’d wanted into the open; if they’d mentioned the werewolves enough, or the _cold_ Waverly’d felt in the dismembered head. She doesn’t remember what John Henry’d said, when he’d arrived behind them, through the thick of the nausea that rocks her now. 

All Nicole remembers for sure is that Kiersten Lesko had been long dead, before they’d shown at the scene. She’s sure that they didn’t kill her. That none of their wands took her _head_ from her _body_ , and that the Ministry will have the spells to prove it.

Even if Wynonna holds Peacemaker like a goddamn smoking gun. 

Now, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor leans against McGonagall’s desk with his hand on his hip as he thinks, smoking a damn pipe like he’s perched on a ranch in Wyoming. Only John Henry could strut around an office with a hat perched on his head, at one in the morning, carrying his wand in a custom leather holster–even if he doesn’t look a shade more than twenty. He’s the youngest hire Hogwarts has ever seen, in the most dangerous of their faculty positions; at an age like that, the entire getup looks a little more than contrived.

Plus–Nicole remembers, thinking about the little _escapes_ of the last year–his eye on Wynonna’s a burden on their case. That, and his interest in Peacemaker’s make and model, like it’s some collector’s item to be bought and sold. Like it’s a wand to be taken, for a new master. 

Henry plucks his pipe from his lips, shutting the door on her train of thought.

‘First, the attack on your old Uncle Curtis, and _now_ , a soiled dove,’ he says aloud, walking back over to join them as he twists his hat by the brim. ‘Coincidin’ with the anniversary of _your_ seventeenth birthday. Not anyone else in the building who might’ve had…a propensity for a passionate crime, or _several_ , happenin’ to fall on the same day?’

‘He wasn’t old,’ Waverly says, defensive. ‘Not for a wizard.’

He raises his hands, contrite. ‘Just a term of endearment, Miss Earp–’

‘ _And_ ,’ she continues. ‘No. Daddy used to say that seventeen was going to be big for Willa and the revenants, when she was only a kid; except kids don’t have _wands_ , so Daddy taught her to use anything muggle she could find, and–’

Waverly ignores the way the memory turns her stomach. Ignores the ghost of Willa’s voice, in the back of her mind, telling her to _walk the beam_ , while she’d practiced with the rocks. She thinks she might feel the pain of a stone hitting her hip, while she’d tried to put one foot in front of the other, and tried not to fall. She ignores the way Nicole dips her head for a worried glance, placing a hand on her knee, and looks away.

‘…And when she had a wand, she’d…Uh. Duel with him. Every morning,’ Wynonna finishes, instead, though her voice isn’t any more steady. A hand goes to her sister’s, lacing her fingers with hers; like they aren’t shaking in syncopated rhythm, while they’re forced to talk. ‘Get her limbered up to…’ She swallows. ‘Y’know. Kill.’

Henry takes a long drag of his pipe, turning his back to them. ‘Sounds like he never said anything about _you_ , Wynonna, if he was so concerned with the oldest of his brood.’

‘Pretty sure he didn’t count on Willa dying in the accident,’ Wynonna says through a tight-lipped smile, and her grip tightens in Waverly’s. Her eyes seem wet, in the light, but only for a second. Because she shoves Peacemaker into the pocket of her robes and wipes the sweat off her palm like she’s some kind of hero. ‘Or that I’d slice him up with a curse I’d learned off a bathroom stall in my first year.’ 

‘And you think…Willa’s death made you–an heir?’ Nicole asks, quiet. ‘To this curse–’

‘There is _no curse_ ,’ Wynonna snaps, loud; enough to turn McGonagall’s head from her call with a line of displeasure in her lip. ‘Okay? Ministry of Magic knows there’s _no curse_. They had me sent off to St. Mungo’s for a whole _year_ for what I _thought_ happened to Daddy, and they proved that there was nothing weird about what happened–’

She releases Waverly’s hand, and turns to her sister. ‘So you can _shut up_ and stop telling people we’re magically fucked. Werewolves _kill_ people. A pack of ‘em live in the forest, and they kill people,’ she says, gesturing about in agitation. ‘I _killed_ daddy, and so his wand answers to _me_ , on my birthday. Big deal, okay? No one’s got a bunch of goddamn _revenants_.’ 

‘Wynonna,’ Waverly returns, soft. ‘You don’t believe that. You’d _always_ sit around when Daddy was telling the story–’

‘They had me _committed_ , Waverly.’ Wynonna grips her shoulder, holding her steady, and holding her gaze in the tumultuous current of her thoughts. ‘They peeled my brain with the pensieve, over and over, until they found what they were looking for. The Ministry of fucking _Magic_ doesn’t think there’s a curse–’

‘Not officially, no,’ comes a voice to their left, booming from the fireplace. ‘But now that there’s been an attack on one of our safest magical grounds, and that the Department of Mysteries seems to have a _prophecy_ on the Earps, they’re definitely listening.’

Their heads whip around around as McGonagall steps aside for the rising figure, stepping out of the fire. One they’ve all known, at some point in their Hogwarts time.

Wynonna spits her surprise out first. ‘ _Dolls_?’ 

He’s smiling wide, warm and knowing. ‘Hello, Earp,’ he says, glancing at the parchment in his hand. He’s no taller than most of them remember, but stronger. Harder, like he’s been witness to the pains that none of them would seek in the dark. There aren’t the bright yellows of the Hufflepuff they’d known and loved, but the green suits him all the same. 

Dolls tucks his document into his robes, shaking the ash from his person.

‘Thought I told you to stay off any of my cases. Not line yourself up for first one out.’

But Wynonna’s already making her way on over, gesturing to his robes, leaving her jaw a little slack. ‘You _passed_ ,’ she says, eyes wide. She smacks him in the stomach when she roots herself before him, looking him up and down; like she’s somewhere between impressed, and disbelieving. ‘Managed to go full-on lawman on me in three years, huh–?’

‘Miss Earp,’ McGongall interjects, rising to her full height. ‘If you would refrain from beating our Ministry officials upon their arrival, I am _quite_ sure they will be far more inclined to assist you through an accusation of _murder_.’

‘–Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. Murder?’ Nicole’s on her feet, next, joining them at McGonagall’s desk. ‘Professor, we found her body, and we’ve got two reliable witnesses–’

‘It is out of my hands, Miss Haught,’ she replies, holding a hand up, and pressing her lips into a hard line that offers no room for argument. ‘It’s been made _abundantly_ clear that Auror Dolls is here to gather his proof in Miss Earp’s favour, and we would do _much_ better not to interfere with their investigation. I trust that is clear.’

‘There _isn’t_ going to be a body, when they look for one,’ Nicole protests. ‘Evidence might not even _be there_ when the police get on site–’

‘ _Aurors_ , Miss Haught,’ McGonagall says warningly, meeting her eyes over the rim of her glasses. ‘I will not have your cadet training interfering with your _magical judgement_.’

Nicole falters with a step, and straightens her back. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ 

Dolls, to his credit, cocks a brow in her direction. ‘I’ll note it down, Haught,’ he says, keeping his eye on her. ‘And congrats on the Captain’s badge. Always knew you’d make it.’

Nicole doesn’t smile back. Even though Wynonna gives her a little thumbs-up.

‘Very Well. Miss Haught, Miss Earp–’ Professor McGonagall nods to Waverly and Nicole, smoothing her hands over the front of her robes. ‘If you would excuse us, we have a death of a student to discuss, and I’d prefer if we managed that sooner rather than later. Certainly before the sun decides to join us over the horizon and I’m supervising a meeting without any sleep.’

‘She’s my sister, Professor,’ Waverly is protesting, when McGonagall points her wand at the door.

‘Escort yourselves to _bed_ , Miss Earp, or I’ll have Miss Haught as a prefect escorting _you_.’ 

Waverly can’t help the look she sweeps across the room. Dolls, Wynonna, Henry, McGonagall, and Nicole; all under a keen look of dirty and damn-you as she pockets her wand, and smooths a hand over the front of her wrinkled uniform. She offers them a smile, wrapped in thin plastic joy, and turns on her heel to leave.

‘I’ve gotta patrol the East Wing,’ Nicole murmurs to Wynonna, just before she goes to join her. She’s got a firm hand on the back of her sleeve, and a warning look. ‘So I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Morning,’ Wynonna counters, under her breath, though she doesn’t protest.

Then McGonagall clears her throat, and Waverly grabs Nicole to drag her down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

‘–He’s gone full…big city leather loafer.’ Wynonna is grumbling to Waverly, when her jaw snaps quickly shut, and she sits a little bit straighter.

They’ve got to be on their third plate of doughnuts, appearing on the Hufflepuff breakfast table, when Dolls sweeps in to join them. He’s invisible, for the moment, to the younger students; the grace of a Sunday at Hogwarts, while everyone’s retired to something a little less formal. When students stroll into the Great Hall for nothing more than a lazy brunch, without an inkling of what’s come to be in the castle. Nicole hasn’t told Lonnie; Waverly definitely thinks it’s better it stays that way, until they’ve found a better story.

Nobody wants a bunch of headless chickens running through the coop without a door for the hatch.

‘So nothing’s changed, huh?’ Dolls says, planting himself beside Wynonna, turning a fond smile on the group as he reaches for some breakfast. ‘Hufflepuff’s still where Earp holds a rendezvous. Meeting over food.’

Nicole snorts, setting her juice on the table, and going for a pumpkin pasty. ‘She’s Wynonna, Dolls. You thought she’d grow up in three years?’

‘She made Head Girl,’ Dolls points out, raising a brow. ‘Even though I thought they’d keep the same criteria for all of time.’

‘Okay, so. One for Hogwarts, zero for Dolls. It’s changed, since you’ve been here,’ Wynonna says, shrugging. ‘See, they just pin the badge-tail on the student-population donkey now. Super big thing they do in the Summer. Really gets you the best leadership.’

‘Then I guess they’re just lucky they’ve got Haught on the team. Prefect and captain,’ he says, almost impressed, and turns a look on Nicole. ‘And I’d swear she was shorter. What year were you in, when I left–?’

‘Third.’ 

Wynonna perks up. ‘Late bloomer? In _way_ more ways than one, she’s become a les–’

Nicole claps a hand over Wynonna’s mouth, pink in the ears, and barely batting a lash at the pumpkin juice Wynonna spits into her palm. It’s worth it. It’s definitely worth it.

Dolls raises a brow at them, while Waverly cants her head in question.

‘Well, she did do _marvellously_ on those sixth year exams,’ Henry says, behind his drink. ‘Better marks than anyone _dared_ to hope for, even with my instruction.’ 

‘All in the wrist,’ Wynonna drawls, waving her wand. 

‘–That’s what she said,’ Waverly says, without missing a beat.

The Earp sisters meet in a short high five, sharing smiles the school can see from Gryffindor. Nicole sweeps a hand in some I-told-you-so display, though her own smile is fond.

‘Point made, Haught,’ Dolls agrees, behind a fresh cup of coffee. Belatedly, he tips his head at Henry, in quick greeting. ‘Earp been briefing you on McGonagall’s plan?’ 

‘Wasn’t it _your_ plan?’ Waverly asks, letting her brow crease. ‘Y’know, Ministry of Magic? Figure of authority, and all that?’

‘It’s a Hogwarts case,’ Dolls replies, folding his arms on the table. ‘Headmistress has the final say on what can and can’t be investigated, unless–your sister comes under suspicion for murder. Which the pensieve says she didn’t do.’

‘Surely you’ve loaded some veritaserum into those auror artilleries, Mr. Dolls,’ Henry points out. ‘Brain peeling’s an invasion on the students of this school, even if you’re no legilimens.’ 

‘She volunteered the memory,’ Dolls says loudly, meeting his eye. ‘I’m not here to compel anybody if everyone cooperates. We just want to make sure Lesko’s death gets sorted before a first-degree charge gets filed against one of your students.’

‘You know she didn’t do it, Dolls,’ Nicole protests. ‘You can get Waverly and I to corroborate against a manslaughter charge–’ 

‘–And have to prove that you’re not suffering from a well-placed memory charm.’ Dolls hardens his look, and frowns at the lot of them. ‘Look. Just focus on getting the proof I need to get the charges dropped at the hearing. Priority isn’t preventing the summons that’re already here.’

‘You’re going to a _hearing_ , Wynonna?’ Waverly chokes through a sip of her juice. ‘Why didn’t you _say_ anything?’

‘I liked you _so_ much better when you weren’t sending me letters from auror training,’ Wynonna sighs at Dolls, offering the tightest of smiles, and raising her goblet to toast him. ‘Really made me forget you’d gone and become a narc.’ 

‘It’s what I do best,’ Dolls returns, unfazed. ‘So. Same question. What’s been disclosed?’

‘I haven’t _disclosed_ anything, James Bond. Yet,’ Wynonna says, holding a finger up at the start of Dolls’s disappointment. ‘Thought I should wait for you, since I’m taking no responsibility for how _bad_ of a plan this is. Like locking mice in with an owl flying in from…I don’t know. Egypt! They’re real sick about playing with their food.’

‘Pretty sure owls _hunt_ in the wild–’ Waverly begins, but Wynonna waves her off. Both turn their gazes on Dolls, and then to John Henry, who clears his throat. 

The latter straightens up, and sets his flask on the table.

‘Minerva wants the castle closed until we find who ripped your old man’s painting,’ he says, sweeping his hand over his moustache. ‘I would like that considered in the plan, before we proceed. It isn’t for negotiation.’

Nicole creases her brow. Sure–maybe today’s fine, while no one has a quidditch practice. Maybe tomorrow, with the novelty of a missed day of class. But if a match comes a little too close to get anyone complacent, or lazy, they’re going to have the captains on their asses. ‘Why?’ 

Henry twists his lip in displeasure. 

‘Well, Miss Haught. If I recall, Professor Dumbledore had some words to say about Mr. Harry Potter and an old animagus in the castle. She doesn’t want anyone running wild in the grounds like you did, or like Mr. Weasley’s old rat.’

‘No. It wasn’t an animal,’ Wynonna returns immediately. ‘The painting’s been slashed with a spell, from somewhere Curtis couldn’t see before they cast–or he’d have run.’

‘There’re too many scratches for one spell.’ Nicole frowns, shaking her head.

‘Plus, none of the portraits around him have anything to say,’ Dolls points out. ‘Most of the paintings around him were objects, or landscapes. No people who might’ve seen or heard what had happened.’ 

‘Always been a…weird place to put a portrait,’ Nicole concedes, exhaling. ‘But that’s always been his thing. It’s near that…scene with the piano he liked. Right?’

‘Regardless, Minerva wants those doors shut against any wild stallions leaving,’ Henry says, taking a swig from his flask, and cracking his neck. ‘In the meantime, _I_ will be assigned to go search the Forest for the body of our fallen Gryffindor–’

Wynonna smacks his arm across the table, sharp and loud. ‘No,’ she says, pointing a finger at him. ‘ _No_. What are you, insane–’ 

‘– _with_ the Head Girl,’ Henry finishes, talking over her blabber, and rolling his eyes. ‘Though I am to be clear that you’re to come as the promise of a _delicious_ appetiser for our foul friends.’

‘Aw. Hot and delicious, how’d you know?’ Wynonna replies, pocketing her wand, and standing up. ‘Those are all my middle name. Right at the top of the birth certificate.’ She grunts, and rolls her shoulders. ‘Fine. You can go into the forest if I come.’

‘I didn’t realise I needed permission from my student.’ Henry spins the cap of his flask, and pushes himself onto his feet. He tips his hat to the group, just as the students down the bench look up to see him, and smiles. ‘Much obliged to your services, Mr. Dolls,’ he murmurs. 

Wynonna manages to come across a little less than unfazed, as she bends to kiss Waverly’s hair. If anyone’s looking at her from five feet away, she might even look composed. She squeezes her sister’s shoulder, tight, before she leaves. ‘See you later, baby girl.’ 

Waverly gets a wave in, before the pair turn around and leave.

Then Dolls lets his niceties slide right off his face, once they’ve gone, and Nicole feels herself grow tense. 

He slides the parchment from his pocket, the one from the night before, and spreads it on the table. It’s littered with notes of various handwritings, and inks. It’s no summons, even if he’s brought the official charge from the Ministry. Nicole can barely read the upside down before Dolls snaps in her face, and drags it out of her side. He moves to hold her gaze, and the gears have clearly changed. ‘What is it she’s not telling me about her friend?’

Nicole pauses, and frowns. ‘…I don’t know what you mean.’

Dolls looks down to consider his question, then–‘How old is he?’

‘I don’t–…know?’ Nicole says, slow and confused, meeting Waverly’s gaze. ‘He was supposed to be fresh out of Ilvermony two years ago, before he came to teach. Quickest draw McGonagall’s ever seen, if the rumours are true, and…he was the only guy applying for the job.’

‘He doesn’t sound like he made it to Ilvermony. It’s too far Northeast for a sound like…he’s grown up on a farm with someone’s granddaddy,’ Dolls returns. ‘Who told you?’ 

‘His family’s born out of the Old West,’ Waverly says, helpful, and touching her shoulder to Nicole’s. ‘There’s a dossier, with the Hogwarts staff. The…family’s stayed in traditional wizarding communities out in Georgia since they moved from England, and then…he made his way over here to Hogwarts. What’s the problem?’

‘No one that young’s ever been a professor,’ Dolls points out, and cracks his neck. ‘And he’s the newest guy on the staff table. Less than two years and there’s been an incident of dark arts in the castle–makes for a bad resume on a professor of Defence.’

‘Okay. You didn’t like _your_ professor,’ Nicole reminds him, raising a brow. ‘What’s the problem with him? He’s a good teacher.’ 

‘My professor didn’t look green enough to be a student in his seventh year, Haught.’ Dolls rises to his feet, too, and nods to Waverly. ‘Stay with her. Look around the castle for clues about the painting, and see if you…find anything out from Gus about the werewolves.’

Waverly balks. ‘I don’t _need_ babysitting!’

‘–You’re an _Earp_ ,’ Dolls reminds her, flat. ‘Whoever’s in this castle looking to spook Wynonna’s going to be either knocking your door, or taking you to get to her. We’re not taking any stupid risks.’ 

Nicole might’ve asked the where-are-you-going or the can-I-help’s, but it’s not the kind of thing you negotiate with Dolls. Hardest Hufflepuff they’ve ever had, and worse as an auror. She sighs, and bites into a doughnut. 

‘Stay with her, Nicole,’ he says again, as he leaves. ‘And if there’s any development into emergency, I want a patronus.’ 

Waverly levels her a look behind his back, and Nicole sighs.

 

* * *

 

Nicole has to get up on her toes to run her fingers along the edge of the tear in Curtis’s portrait. The canvas is well on its way to peeling off the back of the frame; the edge made rough by the tear of something dragged along the seam. It’s like some kind of inhuman hand of claws: five lines, parallel, and left in different lengths. Like it’s a creature with one too many fingers for a human hand. Or, like someone had a knife –– and scratched the rest to hell.

She frowns deep, as she looks down to Waverly, seating her weight onto her heels. 

‘Wynonna thinks this…wasn’t an animal?’ Nicole asks.

‘Not an animal,’ Waverly confirms, looking up, and propping a hand up on her hip. ‘Not fully animal, at least. Too short. Doesn’t really rule out animagus, though, or metamorphagi–’

‘–Because she said spell. Right.’ Nicole sighs, stepping back. ‘Cast from a distance.’ 

‘Right.’

‘Or…some kind of werewolf,’ Nicole points out, soft. ‘If it happened before the moon got out, and someone was desperate to get Wynonna’s attention…it could’ve been a partial transformation.’

Waverly holds her gaze for a moment. It’s like something twists behind her eyes; something, while she worries her lip in her teeth, and closes her hand into a loose fist; something she can’t quite get into words, while Nicole tries to stand and listen, before it fades away. ‘Thanks for walking me back, yesterday,’ she says instead. ‘And for…helping. With all this. It’s really sweet.’ 

Nicole finds herself smiling, soft. ‘Course,’ she says, reaching a hand up to Waverly’s back, and resting her touch there. ‘Someone’s gotta look out for you. God knows Wynonna hasn’t done you any favours with making you friends.’ 

‘Like you haven’t heard the boys who want to bang my sister,’ Waverly returns, rolling her eyes. ‘She doesn’t care about friends.’ 

‘ _Waverly_ ,’ Nicole laughs, shaking her head. ‘You’re _quite_ the popular girl. And I’ve _still_ heard all kinds of things about you.’ 

‘It’s all in the smile and wave,’ Waverly concedes, smiling up at her, and shuffling a little. Nicole lets her hand linger just a notch too long; then, it’s too late to let go, and she’s left a little flushed. 

Waverly doesn’t move, tilting her gaze to that painting of the piano. It’s weird, for Nicole: to see that it doesn’t move–to be like she’s back in her parents’ muggle house. 

Waverly doesn’t seem to notice a thing about the touch between them, staring at that painting.

‘It’s got nice craftsmanship,’ Nicole says eventually. ‘Someone must’ve loved it.’ 

‘Curtis. It’s his painting, from…his time here. And he loved that piano so much he put it up here before making any work of Gus,’ Waverly says softly. ‘He wanted me to have it.’ 

‘…I’m sorry.’ Nicole moves her hand to her shoulder. There’s a brief squeeze, before she drops her hand. It doesn’t feel right, in front of a crime scene. It’s not the time to go too far, and she’s not going to be the asshole with an agenda. ‘He sounds like he was…nice. To both you and Wynonna.’

‘Yeah. He was nice,’ Waverly sighs. ‘He was–a _really_ smart guy.’

‘Yeah. Then someone caught up with him,’ Nicole murmurs, reaching to draw her wand. 

Waverly’s head seems to snap when it turns, and she’s frowning. 

‘What did you say?’ 

Nicole raises a brow. 

‘Someone caught up with him,’ she repeats, slow. ‘Wynonna told us that he…owled her, from London, before he died. Remember?’

Waverly’s eyes go wide, and Nicole’s sure she’s missed the last step on this particular stretch of Hogwarts staircase. 

‘You’re a genius,’ she breathes, grabbing Nicole by her arms, and holding her steady. ‘Oh, _Merlin_ , I–we need to get to the library for the copies of the _Prophet_ –’

Nicole blinks at her. ‘Wave–’ 

‘I know who’s been in the castle,’ Waverly interjects quickly, by way of explanation, dragging at the end of Nicole’s sleeve. ‘Are you coming or what?’ 


	4. Chapter 4

As Wynonna tugs her foot from the third pile of wet leaves, left soft and soggy from some early morning shower, she’s half-thinking about turning herself in to the Ministry of Magic. It’s not the worst idea she’s had: it’ll get her warmed up: stepping through a big, warm, floo fire, before they stuff her in some cushy chair for the hearing. When she gets off innocent (and she’ll get of _innocent_ , because, y’know, she _is_ ) they’ll send her right back to her bed in Hufflepuff, and she’ll probably lose the Head Girl bullshit for good. 

Sounds way better than mud stuck on the leather of her boots, like she’s been out helping Gus in the farm, and stinking once she’s back in the castle. 

At least she’s got good old Professor John Henry, pulling his hat a little lower on his head, looking around for some sign of a ‘beast in the woods’. It’s enough for her to drag her sleeves up her arms, grimace just a little, and not slack off too hard.

‘We’ve been at this for an hour,’ she complains, running a hand through a giant knot of curls, seeming to twist into wildness with the damn humidity. ‘What if she’s not…here, by now?’ 

Henry looks back over his shoulder, distracted from the branch he lifts for a better look East. 

‘I’d assume it more likely we’ll find her at your last location,’ he says, raising a brow. ‘Wherever you had your encounter with the revenants. Seeing as a _head_ has no legs to move.’ 

‘Most _heads_ aren’t surrounded like a…Christmas turkey,’ Wynonna reminds him, though she doesn’t stop looking for a sign. Even if every bit of their Hansel-and-Gretel bird crumb trail seems lost to the morning, and this whole thing is a half-assed foray into several piles of fallen leaves. ‘They were going to _eat_ her. We don’t know that they _haven’t_ eaten her, after putting the smell of blood in the air–’

‘–But know that they would _abstain_ if they were werewolves, as the legend would propose,’ he retorts, firm. ‘Witches are hardly suitable fare for wizard digestion, whether he takes the body of a beast or a man–’

‘–Those men took her _head_. Okay?’ Wynonna snaps, spinning around, and gesturing wildly. ‘They pulled it off. No Killing Curse. _Not_ normal bad people, Henry.’ She tightens her grip on her wand, and waves it about to the empty forest. ‘Maybe they’re _real wolves_ who hang out in the day to get us both killed.’

‘Wynonna,’ he says, raising a hand to calm her, and fixing his gaze on hers. Despite herself, it’s comforting; it picks at the coil she’s got deep in her stomach, keeping it from bobbing around like a hula girl on a dashboard, if only for a second. Guess this is what you get when your Professor knows you as well as this one does, after the time they’ve spent together. 

She could get used to the privileges, even if they’re stuck in private. 

Henry seems to turn his words behind his teeth, before he begins to speak, slow.

‘I do not doubt your account,’ he begins, shifting his robe to rest a hand on his wand. ‘But _wolves_ would not sever a head so neatly with teeth alone.’ 

When their gazes meet again, she knows they’re both thinking about the image in the pensieve, of the scene of the crime. Blood, pooling on Waverly’s shoes, and the skin that looks like it’d been magically _cauterised_ as it’d been cut. It’s enough evidence that Henry’s right.

‘Whatever you had saw would be the work of some dark magic from a wizard’s wand, or the blade of a muggle knife, wielded in a human hand,’ he says, turning back to the bark of the tree he’d been inspecting. ‘A sorcerer would certainly imply a werewolf infestation.’

‘…Didn’t know you were a Sherlock Holmes.’ Wynonna folds her arms as he walks away, raising her chin in defiance. Just in case he looks back, and in case the _satisfaction_ doesn’t keep him walking on ahead. ‘You got any more of that _professional_ opinion?’ 

He breathes a chuckle, barely audible.

‘Your headmistress seems to think it the finest of its kind,’ he returns, with a shrug. ‘Though perhaps you think Defence Against the Dark Arts has changed since my time in the United States.’ 

Wynonna snorts, kicking up a little dirt. 

‘Like you think three years is going to change anything,’ she retorts, holding up a hand in surrender. ‘It’s been hundreds of years of magic, and we haven’t even figured out a better levitation than _wingardium leviosa_.’

‘I suppose I assumed the Americas had always lagged behind our fairer cousin, and been proud of its place in history.’

Before Wynonna can quip something about ‘Go Canada’ or ‘blame all that on MACUSA,’ the smell hits her like a goddamn wall. Way worse than the mud she’s already got, caked on her shoes, and rivalling the load of dead possums they’d once found in Gus’s backyard. Definitely warrants a shift of her grip, on the shaft of her wand, holding it a little tighter in her fist.

Time to breach the territory, even if she’s never been the kind of girl to be the party snack.

Even if she’s _not_ expecting Henry’s hand to catch tight around her arm when she tries to step forward, nearly earning him a charm aimed dead between the eyes.

‘What the hell?’ she hisses, demanding.

‘You are going to stay back here, Wynonna,’ he’s already saying, by the time she tries to buck in his grip. Her eyes are wild, between his hands, and his eyes. _Not cool_ , her look says, as she struggles. _So not cool_ , and _you are so in trouble_. ‘You can raise your wand and keep the guard, and let me go ahead, as we agreed.’

‘We didn’t agree on shit, Hank–’

It’s on cue that a figure seems to crown, in the trees ahead. Swelling up from the horizon like an animal on the prowl, with red, glowing eyes; stepping like he’s got no fear of what could take him, as a predator. It’s probably got a whole mouth of teeth it can’t wait to close, over a fresh meal – because she doesn’t need a howl to spot a goddamn wolf. 

Wynonna straightens up as Henry’s grip goes slack. ‘And looks like _ahead_ ’s coming in hot.’

He hisses through his moustache, tugging her back from a step. ‘– _Wynonna_.’ The words seem to tumble from his lips, riddled with truth and urgency. ‘I assure you the company ahead is highly foul and hostile to your person, and you would do well not to advance without a scout. Stay back–’

Then there’s the voice, from a head hanging low. It’s human now, and cant on an angle, as it comes through the trees in a thick coat of fur. 

Oh, _shit_.

‘–Very good morning, Hank,’it–she– _he_ seems to purr, as he comes into the light. 

Wynonna finds herself staring up at a blond crop of hair on a head, sides shaved clean, and the blood that seems to matte the hairs of his coat. Blood that she’s chalking up to a recent murder, without a shade of doubt.

Henry shoves Wynonna behind him, slipping his hand to his wand like it’s a loaded pistol. The silence speaks a little too loud, for an answer, and Wynonna’s wiring her jaw firmly shut.

‘I see you’ve returned with new…’ He waves a hand to Wynonna. ‘ _Company_. To dishevel on my ground.’

Wynonna feels a shiver down her back, like there’re the ghosts of dark, unwelcome fingers. Henry’s hand doesn’t move from where it grasps her by the front of her robe, until he nudges her back another notch. This time, she doesn’t resist; not while there’s something she’s missing, and she feels like she’s well at the edge of a cliff. 

‘…Bobo Del Rey,’ Henry greets, finally, tipping the brim of his hat. It falls low, into the back of his throat, and stays uncomfortably slow. ‘I do believe I speak for both of us when I say I have no chance of having vice on your land.’

‘Now, now.’ The wolf smiles. ‘I do believe I know my own _law_.’

Henry raises a brow. ‘My _sincerest_ apologies–’

‘But not that _place_ was ever a consideration for you, Holliday.’

Bobo Del Rey loiters his way over to the pair of them, planting his feet in the ground. Even in the gentle light of the day, streaming in through the trees overhead, the shadows deepen creases in his face that Wynonna doesn’t like. ‘That, I believe, hasn’t changed.’

Two things, Wynonna thinks, as she shuttles her gaze between them in a haze of thick confusion. One: John Henry, ‘Holiday’. What is that, some kind of bad spring-break nickname? Two: he _knows_ this George of the Jungle, from deep in the forest?

‘Oh, it has not,’ Henry agrees, though a shrug has him defecting to the hold of his wand. ‘But other things remain in order as well. A man honours his work, and his headmistress sends him out to retrieve the remains of her students.’

‘Student,’ Bobo corrects, folding his hands behind his back. ‘And,’ he adds, smug. ‘If she’d heeded the _forbidden_ in Forbidden Forest, she’d have left…intact.’

‘You shut the hell up.’ Wynonna has him right down the barrel of her wand, from her distance. With a mug like that, she’s just about ready to punch through him, if they have to. She’s ready to send him down to hell.

But Bobo leans himself all the way to the side, clicking his tongue in disappointment, and she finds her skin crawling to get off her body.

‘Mister Bobo,’ Henry says, loud, but Bobo ignores him.

‘Miss Wynonna.’ He’s patronising, as he takes a step, and she retreats to keep their distance. His voice drips something all too familiar, and all too close to home. Like it’s from a distant memory, like it’s– ‘Haven’t you grown up. Even if you’re no trained heir, like your _sister_ –’

Wynonna feels _Daddy_ and _Willa_ and _revenants_ and _St. Mungo’s_ flash through her head like a train, and she’s shoved her wand against Bobo’s throat before he takes another breath. Stark white wood, against his pale neck, digging a dimple that promises a whole world of _pain_.

It’s glowing, under her fingers, when Henry grabs her by the wrist.

‘I’ve got a clean shot!’ She growls at him, wrenching herself free.

‘You fire that wand and it all goes to _shit_ ,’ he hisses back, hand closed on her wand arm, and threatening to point his wand in her direction. Wynonna isn’t sure he hasn’t lost his goddamn mind, in the bright blue of his gaze, _wildly_ searching hers. ‘So put that _Peacemaker_ back in your _pants_.’

Bobo starts a new, cheshire grin, and sniffs the air. ‘No, no, no,’ he purrs. ‘Not the first thing that’s been down those pants.’

Wynonna can’t help the way her eyes widen, or the way her jaw sets in anger. Bobo Del Rey’s lucky he finds himself down the aim of Henry’s wand, and that the professor flaps his jaws, before she gets there first.

‘You’ll keep from threatening my students or suffer the tools of my trade, _Bobo_ ,’ Henry says, twisting his wrist to angle his wand on their revenant’s throat. ‘I do recall you were familiar with those talents in your day, and I will not hesitate to send a quick reminder.’

‘All men love their glory days, Holliday,’ Bobo returns, dipping his chin to lick the goddamn tip. ‘Better remember that yours are well on their way to over.’

‘ _I_ am still a man of my word,’ Hank says, taking a step closer. ‘And you have yet to honour your deal in this exchange.’

‘I believe,’ Henry continues, smoothing a hand over his moustache, ‘that you promised you’d ensure the safety of my Hogwarts position. I well overpaid my dues and received no compensation from your _luxury_ estate.’

Bobo clicks his tongue, rising to his full height, and his eyes narrow. 

‘ _You_ lived on _my_ hospitality in this forest, Doc,’ he mutters, stepping them both back in a dangerous dance, and digging the wand deeper into his flesh. ‘Crawled outta that deep lake and lived off _my_ protection. And, if I recall–all under your _dear_ assurances that you would take the job,’ he clacks his jaw together, biting at the air, and sniffing the fear off Wynonna’s sweaty brow. 

He opens his eyes, canting his head. ’And never come… _back_.’ 

‘ _You_ endeavoured to position me for this professorship,’ Henry grounds out, in return. Louder, now, as he backs that tango up by a dominant step. ‘You promised me your assistance in maintaining our _treaty_ , while I occupied the professorship, and you occupied an undisturbed forest. Given that you’ve violated the sanctity of our students, and that this is my _work_ for Hogwarts, you are under obligation to return _my_ student’s body.’

Wynonna thinks she deserves some kind of award for the straight face she keeps on, as it all settles into the ground of her understanding. Even if it’s coming down like a hard, unwelcome rain, falling in an early monsoon. 

_Holiday_ isn’t a name from spring break. He’s John Henry freaking Doc _Holliday_ , from Wyatt Earp’s time, if a _revenant_ knows his face and name. He’s the same guy that’s been smiling up at her in the books she’d needed for every piece of homework she never did for his class, about the Old West. About the old American magic that’d been brought over by the transfer students, during an old collaboration, bringing John Henry and Wyatt to the Hogwarts grounds, to stamp out a squatting community of _evil wizards_ –

Jesus Christ. Doc Holliday. He’s Doc Holliday, and she’s been _sleeping_ with him.

Bobo recoils, almost as hard as she does, like he’s been burned. 

She’s got to shove it down and stay focused, when Bobo licks his teeth, and considers the pair with drawn, ready wands. When he’s sizing them up, like they’d fit in his teeth, if he tried to take their heads; he’s searching the area, around them, like he wonders who will come for them.

Doc Holliday can wait, while Wynonna’s got her life on the line.

Six long breaths pass before Bobo nods.

Henry takes a step forward, pocketing his wand on cue. ‘Where is she?’ 

‘Your blonde’s body is where it’s been left behind,’ Bobo says, like he’s volunteering, and like it’s a generous act of his own charity. ‘I…chanced across her parts when I was taking my–’ 

He pauses, stepping back to smirk at Wynonna. ‘Morning stroll.’ 

‘Much obliged,’ Henry says, after a moment. He seats his hat deep on his head, loosening the knot of their tension, while Wynonna adjusts her robes. Talk about big ass shoes she doesn’t want to wear, facing a demon she’s not ready to kill in the light of day. Talk about John Henry, who’s turned out to be a Class-A conman; talk about Bobo, the demon; and Kiersten, dead. 

Not the dream team she wants as a birthday surprise, in the middle of the forest.

‘Pleasure doing business, Mister Del Rey,’ Henry says, as he brushes past the shell of Bobo’s thick fur coat, and Wynonna decides she won’t do the same.

‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ he returns, dipping his chin, and turning to smile over his shoulder. ‘Now get the hell out of my territory, Holliday, or I’ll have you both,’ he sniffs them, again, eyes narrowing. ‘Removed.’ 

Wynonna can’t help the snort. 

‘Don’t worry. We’ll check out before noon,’ she mutters, under her breath. ‘What does he think this is, the Shangri-La?’

Ahead, Henry’s already pushing into that clearing, and Wynonna’s left to ignore the wolf as he slinks away. Don’t look back. Don’t look back, and don’t look the goddamn gift horse in the mouth, no matter how little she trusts him.

She focuses on the smell in the air, once more, once the distraction’s gone, and she isn’t subject to eau de Bobo–and–blood. The smell of the rot, showing her no mercy. The earth is soft again, under her feet; she’s back in the light, with a couple more steps, and she’s telling herself that she’ll be fine.

She decides she’s not thinking about how Doc Holliday leading her along, parading as some young professor from a farmhouse in Georgia. 

Definitely not while she’s staring at Kiersten’s eyes open on her severed head, staring up at her with leaves stuck to her cold, dead cheeks.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Nicole’s pretty sure she’s never seen Madam Pince give anyone a dirtier look than the one she’s got trained on Waverly’s back, while they rifle through the stacks of the _Prophet_. 

Okay. So maybe it’s the folds they’ve misaligned, in every paper Waverly rejects, shoved into Nicole’s hands to replace on the shelf. Maybe it’s the rustling of each page in the silence of the library, or the distracting flash of photography in every tabloid headline. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve skipped through three bookcases of years, looking for _this_ year, and that Waverly had nearly tipped the last one they’d rounded.

Either way? They’ve got Pince’s attention, as two of a _really small_ handful of idiots in the school library on a Sunday, doing some choice research on whatever-it-is-about-Curtis that Waverly won’t explain straight. Nicole’s turned an apologetic look over her shoulder a little too many times, and she’s pretty sure they’ve stopped working.

She’s midway through refolding the paper from 1997 when the date on the top shelf catches her eye, and she reaches to grab Waverly by the shoulder, tugging her in to whisper. ‘–There. January, this year, it’s there,’ she manages, close to the shell of her ear.

Waverly thinks the breath against her cheek is warmer than she expects Nicole to be, and she’s just a bit distracted.

Nicole pauses. ‘You wanted January.’

‘…Yeah. Sorry. That’s when Uncle Curtis died,’ she murmurs back. ‘January fifteenth, so…’ She tilts her head all the way up, even if she’s barely seeing over the edge of the shelf. ‘They run murder stories by the next day, right?’

Nicole’s brow dips into a little crease, even as she gets up on her toes to reach for the folder, easing _Jan 13–19_ from between the other stacks. Murder story isn’t the phrase she’d use, for a loved one; then again, she wouldn’t be peeling through the papers for the story, months after the fact, and Waverly won’t tell her why. 

It’s lighter than she expects, and it’s a little loud against the top of the shelf when she tugs it free. ‘Haven’t you seen it?’ she asks, tentative. ‘When it came out?’

‘Uh.’ Waverly dims, if only for a moment. ‘No, Gus– Gus had the _Prophet_ stop coming, for a while. Didn’t want owls in the house.’

‘Right. Sorry.’

‘No, it’s…it’s fine. I’m fine.’

Waverly coughs at the cloud of dust, pressing up against Nicole, when the redhead thumbs the folder open.

It’s weird, seeing them all in series. Nicole’s never been much of a reader of the Prophet, except over the shoulders of her teammates at the breakfast table. On January thirteenth, it’s the Minister for Magic on the front page; on the fourteenth, a spread on the Holyhead Harpies, and their streak of winning games; fifteenth is something about Cornwall and the innovations in aquatic magic; on the sixteenth, weirdly, is a piece about the Animagi, running rampant in the Scottish highlands, confusing muggle sheep.

When Nicole flips to the seventeenth, it’s a lovely little picture of Hogsmeade, covering half the page. In the little corner, pointing to page thirteen, there’s a little line: _squib suffers stroke on Hogwarts grounds_.

Waverly reads the rest aloud.

‘– _Hogwarts infirmary under investigation for neglect of duty_.’

Nicole doesn’t think to mention that her voice is a little further away than she’d like, and that her eyes seem to cloud for a long half-second. ‘Waves, are you–’

‘I’m fine,’ Waverly says, a little too quick, and meeting her gaze just a little too ready. 

Nicole isn’t convinced, even when she nods. 

‘Okay,’ she says anyway, despite herself. She’s stacking the papers with the seventeenth on top, balancing that open folder in a precarious cradle of her arms. Madam Pince will demand she fix it later, but for now: this is what they need.

‘So.’ At least try for a distraction, right? ‘You said…you know who was in the castle?’

‘Well,’ Waverly says, jabbing her finger at the picture of Hogwarts, ‘he owled Wynonna from London, right? Leaky Cauldron. And he said, “they’ve caught up with me,” and _then_ came up here to Hogsmeade–’

‘So he could come to dinner in the castle,’ Nicole realises, as Waverly takes the folder from her. ‘That was…just after Christmas break, and–’

She tries not to think about the funeral, just yet; even if it feels a hell of a lot like skirting the edge of a deep lake, standing in some unstable mud. (It’d been small. Nicole had only known because Wynonna had been going, and she didn’t have anyone else for support.) 

Nicole shakes it out of her head. ‘Yeah, that’s what Wynonna said. He wanted to come for dinner in the castle. Something about helping Hagrid with his tomatoes–’

‘Then the stroke,’ Waverly agrees, nodding. ‘On Hogwarts grounds, while he was _in_ the castle. But he was…a squib, not untouchable. Magic should’ve cleared a clot without a hitch.’

Nicole finds herself scrambling for the words to pull the brake on the train, before it goes into a valley of hope she can’t quite control. _Murder_ isn’t the kind of thing you want to suggest as a theory to a witch from the Earp family; not when that stirs all kinds of closure that comes with death by disease, and Nicole’s not even _sure_ that that’s what happened– 

Hell, she doubts that’s what happened.

‘Maybe it was too late when Madam Pomfrey saw him,’ Nicole finds herself suggesting, instead. The words find their own march and their own order, as she struggles for something to say. Something that won’t upset her. Something that _isn’t_ encouraging, or too kind. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say here, Waves, but–it could just be–’

‘He was in _great_ shape, Nicole,’ Waverly argues, and it’s suddenly sharp.

It’s upset her. Perfect. Great job.

‘I didn’t mean–’

‘He was…healthy, okay? He went to the muggle doctor for checkups once a year and took the vaccinations, and–’ 

‘Okay, okay.’ Nicole slips her hands up to rest on Waverly’s shoulders, and quiets her down. Her look is gentle, as she ducks her head. ‘I’m sorry, he was healthy. But…strokes happen to everybody. All kinds of people, in the muggle world.’ 

‘We’re not muggles,’ Waverly bites out, and Nicole lifts her touch in retreat.

There’s a chill in the space between them, like Waverly’s snapped a twig in the forest, and Nicole’s spooked off like a deer in the wild. Immediately, Waverly looks like she regrets it; she doesn’t quite get it out of her mouth in apology before Nicole speaks first. 

‘…I know,’ she says, moving her gaze back to the shelf. ‘It’s not the muggle world. Sorry.’

Waverly bites on her lip, and tilts her head in appeal. ‘Nicole–’ 

‘Whatever,’ Nicole says, waving her off, and turning a couple degrees away. She’s distant, in just a split second; the warmth seems to have died in her eyes, as she’s shoved back out of their little magic circle. Waverly isn’t going to live that one down. ‘We gotta find out who went through that painting, right? Way more important.’

It doesn’t seem like Nicole’s forgiving, so Waverly’s got to put that aside, Straighten up tall, and nod through her conclusion.

‘We know who had it out for him.’

‘ _You_ know,’ Nicole reminds her, frustrated. ‘You decided you wouldn’t _tell_ me.’

‘– _Revenants_ , Nicole,’ she says quickly, pointing to the castle once more. ‘Just…think about it. A revenant in the castle would the spell and the claws and _Curtis_ , because–’ The folder slaps shut into another cloud of dust, and Waverly regrets it with another cough. 

‘They’re werewolves,’ she finishes. ‘And if Uncle Curtis was in on the curse, too, they would’ve–’

‘Taken him out to keep him quiet.’ Nicole rolls her head back with a groan. She looks up at the gap in the shelving of the _Prophet_ , where they’ve siphoned out what they need, and where they stand no chance of putting it back _just_ right. Just like they’ve got no chance of solving any kind of murder of someone’s Uncle Curtis, especially when the bad guy’s a wizard with spells and giant teeth.

She wouldn’t be a Gryffindor if they didn’t try against the odds, right?

‘Okay,’ she breathes finally, even if she sounds less sure than she’d like. ‘So–so what d’you want to do, Waves?’

‘So there’s a revenant werewolf, _in_ the castle,’ Waverly says meaningfully, grabbing Nicole’s elbow. ‘And he’s tearing up the art, and he killed Curtis, so we–’ 

Realisation crosses her face, and it goes a little pale. 

‘–Oh my God. We’ve gotta find _Dolls_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's following along. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, either here or on Tumblr @wouldshoot! 
> 
> Many thanks to @halfearp for her input and support in writing this chapter. x


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